“My Lord, are you not well?”
“Yes; perfectly well, I thank you, Rushbrook,” and he leaned back against the carriage.
“I thought, Sir,” returned Rushbrook, “you spoke languidly—I beg your pardon.”
“I have the head-ache a little,” answered he:—then taking off his hat, brushed the powder from it, and as he put it on again, fetched a most heavy sigh; which no sooner had escaped him, than, to drown its sound, he said briskly,
“And so you tell me you have had good sport to-day?”
“No, my Lord, I said but indifferent.”
“True, so you did. Bid the man drive faster—it will be dark before we get home.”
“You will shoot to-morrow, my Lord?”
“Certainly.”
“How does Mr. Sandford do, Sir?”